


Our last summer days

by Moreshipssthanthenavy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Friendship, Frustrated Sherlock, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg being a good friend, Implied/Referenced Torture, John also has problems, John is a Mess, John is an asshole (but redeems himself), Loads of Angst, Nightmares, PTSD Sherlock, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Nightmare, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock returns, Sherlock tries to be nice, Sick Sherlock, The web has not been dismantled, everyone is a mess, injuries, season 4 never happened, sherlock collapses, sick!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moreshipssthanthenavy/pseuds/Moreshipssthanthenavy
Summary: When Sherlock returns, John realises that he's angry, but most of all, John learns a lot about himself and about Sherlock's time away. Things seem to fall back into place, but Mycroft brings news that could ruin them all.





	1. He returns

**Author's Note:**

> Many hugs and kisses to Dan and Irene for the support! I love you <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John knew the man standing before him was him.   
> The man that haunted him, even after 5 and a half years.   
> The man that died.   
> The man who he saw a jump of a building, fall, and hear the crack of his skull against the pavement. The death which caused his limp to come back.   
> The death which had caused him so much pain.   
> That man was now standing in front of him, frankly looking fine and dandy, and especially very much alive."

It had been a warm summer day, a _good_ summer day. John had a day off from the clinic, he had almost been working there non-stop since _the Funeral_. It was almost 6 years since that dark day. John had told everyone he _overcame_ the grief, but deep inside of him it kept lingering in a tight ball.  
He lived with it. He _had_ to live with it.  
He had gone to the park to enjoy the summer and his free day. He had sat in the grass for a while, tanning, everyone always told him he looked healthier, _happier_ when he had some colour. So, he took his chance, if it meant people would stop asking if he was "okay".  
When he was sitting in the grass, he noticed how saturated everything looked around him. The grass seemed bright and luscious, the flowers and other greenery looked just as alive. John had forgotten how alive everything around you could be. While being in the middle of grief and diving head first into work, he had ignored the world around him. Nothing had mattered. The only thing that kept him going was not focussing on living, but just _continuing_.  
He didn't want to give himself the time to live when _he_ wasn't there. He felt guilty when he enjoyed things. It wasn't fair that _he_ couldn't see the bright colours of the summer. John sighed and laid back down on the grass and looked up into the sky. John was no religious man. He had never prayed to any God or Goddess, even when in battle or with a gun to his head, but he prayed to anyone who would listen when _he_ died. John would do anything to make _him_ come back. To take that pain that made _him_ jump and suffer through it himself.  
After almost six years, he still wouldn't think of _his_ name. He couldn't speak it out loud either. It caused too much agony.  
John shook his head. He had to stop thinking about what happened. It wouldn't change anything or make _him_ come back. John needed to cope, but he wasn't sure if he could ever learn how to do that.

After his tanning session, he had gone to Tesco and gotten groceries. He didn't try to eat particularly healthy, but he was trying to lose some weight. At the tea aisle, he had even locked eyes with a blonde woman, she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but she wasn't ugly either. Her eyes shone with intelligence and something else, something John couldn't lay his finger on. They exchanged smiles and went their own ways. It was nothing worth lingering on.  
He still felt the warmth buzzing on his skin, when he returned home, late in the afternoon. The sun was already setting and he opened his windows to let the cooling air into his home. He heard the sounds of the city: laughing children, people dining, traffic, and so much more. He listened to the sounds of people living and hoped that some of that life would transfer onto him.  
He glanced up to the sky once more, breathing in the summer air. Somewhere in the distance arose a dark cloud, ominous with its size, carrying a storm. John didn't worry about this yet, though, as he got to cooking.

He was making spaghetti while enjoying some wine when there was a knock on the front door. _Had he forgotten an appointment?_

He had almost no friends in London. He didn't keep in touch with anyone after the Funeral. It all reminded him too much of him. Greg had sent him messages on Facebook: " _Hi John, haven't heard from you in a while. How are you doing? Fancy doing a pint?_ " and tried to call him multiple times, each one getting less concerned and more aggravated: " _John, I'm going to stop calling you. Everyone misses you, but we can't help you when you keep shutting us out of your goddamn life. Take care, will you?_ " , but John ignored him.  
Molly had called him every day for a couple of weeks, leaving messages: " _John, I'm worried. You should be moving on. We all are. Please take care_."

Mrs Hudson had sent him regular cards: " _Look, John, I've visited this church, isn't it wonderful?_ " but those stopped after a couple of months when John didn't reply to any of them.  
He had even gotten a luxurious envelope in the mail, with the return address to Mycroft.  
John had immediately burned that envelope. Mycroft hadn't tried to seek contact after that.

There was a second knock on the door. John turned the hobs down, he didn't want to ruin his meal after all and briskly walked over to the front door. The knock sounded similar somehow, John knew that he recognised that knock, but ignored the feeling. He opened the front door and was surprised by a homeless person standing in front of him. He was tall, wearing loose clothing and John could smell the man from a foot away. John took a deep breath to say no to whatever this man wanted, but his breath hitched when he saw two storm blue eyes watching him intently.

He could feel time _stretch_ and still.  
The whole of London seemed to stop, no, the whole world stopped turning.  
He couldn't forget those eyes when he still saw them so clearly in his dreams.  
His mouth felt dry, suddenly, and the silence stretched between them.

John knew the man standing before him was _him_.  
The man who haunted him, even after 5 and a half years.  
The man who died.  
The man who he saw a jump of a building, fall, and hear the crack of _his_ skull against the pavement. The death which caused his limp to come back.  
The death which had caused him so much pain.  
That man was now standing in front of him, frankly looking fine and dandy, and especially very much _alive_.

The tight ball of grief disappeared like smoke, and for a second John wanted to jump up and down with happiness, hug him, take him inside, hear his voice again, feel his presence again. But that happiness was soon overshadowed by anger.  
Pure and vile anger washed over John in an instant, taking all the thoughts he had with it. His ears began to buzz, drowning out all the sounds of London. He saw _his_ lips move but didn't want to hear him. _He_ didn't deserve to be heard.  
After all those years, of grief and pain, _he_ looked fine.  
It happened before John knew what he was doing. He stepped forward to close the gap between them. He then grabbed _his_ shoulders and pushed _him_ to the ground. "I do not want to hear what you have to say. You ruined me. You cannot come here and pretend like _nothing_ happened. You do not deserve to be listened to." John hissed. He then did something he never thought he would do.  
He spat in the face of the man who was now sprawled out on the ground. "Fuck off."  
John turned on his heels and entered his apartment and threw the door closed behind him. His breaths were coming quickly, too quickly, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest. John walked through the apartment and closed every window and curtain. He didn't want to see the face of the man that had betrayed him. He blocked out everything.

He didn't even check if the man was still laying on the pavement.

He returned to the kitchen, and grabbed his wine glass and held it firm in his trembling hand. John could feel the fury lingering in his fingertips, reminding him of the person he had so hoped to see once more. He evened out his breaths and took a sip. He refused to let that man ruin his life, again. He had what he had prayed for, wished for, but having it made him realise how this would ruin everything he had built up again. He couldn't drop everything for that man, could he? He was being hypocritical and illogical, he knew this, but with the fury bouncing around in his head, he couldn't think straight.  
Everything was normal still, he told himself. John turned around and turned the hobs on again.  
Life would continue how it was, he told himself again.

Later that evening, he had almost forgotten his encounter. He was washing the dishes and dark thoughts crept onto him. Didn't _he_ look pale? Didn't _he_ tremble when John touch him? Didn't _he_ look sick? John was immediately reminded by his oath, to care for the sick. He suddenly felt his stomach drop.

What had he done?

Time stilled once more. He was back in the moment where he stepped forward to _him_ and grabbed _his_ shoulders. He could feel the thin, much too thin, shoulders under his hands. He felt the tremor. He saw the grime on _his_ face and how grime covered the much-exaggerated features and the little scars underneath. He even saw the _fear_ in those storm grey eyes. Fear for him, for the doctor who protected him so many times.  
The anger had overshadowed the facts in front of him. He did not see how the man in front of him shivered in the summer heat, how he was clutching his side and arm, or how he was swaying slightly. The doctor hadn't recognised or saw anything but fury, because this man had taken 5 years of his life  
John had prayed for him to return. John quickly put down the dish in his hands and wiped away the soap covering his hands.  
He jogged over to the window looking out on the pavement. He pushed the curtain over and peered outside. There was no one standing in the dark.  
The ball of grief was replaced by a pulsating ball of guilt.

_It was like it never happened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought, and kudo's are always much appreciated.   
> I have 3 more chapters written, so expect those coming soon!!   
> xx


	2. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realises he made a mistake, and that he needs the help of the people he pushed away.

John didn't sleep that night. He mulled over the events of that day.

When he thought back at how  _he_  had stood in front of him, John could see that the man was not fine like he had thought. He had been stupid to act like that. He felt immensely guilty and felt anxious energy fill his heart. Had he gotten one last chance and threw it onto the curb? 

 

At  _one AM_ , John had been ready to go and search for the man, but didn’t know where to start in the city. He could try to find people from the homeless network, or walk around the usual places  _he_ visited when  _he_  was still alive.

There was one person who knew about this mess. At least someone John had the phone number from.

 _Mycroft_.

The phone rang twice before he heard the elegant voice of the businessman.

"First of all,  _fuck_  you, Mycroft," John said before Mycroft had a chance to greet him. "Second of all, is  _he_  with you?" John asked, breathless.

"Good to talk to you too, dr. Watson." Mycroft replied. "I can assume, my brother has been with you?"

"Yes, but I made the mistake of-" John searched for the correct term. "The mistake of locking  _him_  out."

"I can't blame you, although I do have to say: it wasn't the smartest course of action." John could imagine the smug look on Mycroft's face. "To answer your question, my brother is not with me nor has he been in contact with me in the last couple weeks." John could hear Mycroft take a sharp inhale.

"Do you know where  _he_  could be?" John asked quickly, he wanted this conversation to be over as soon as possible.

"Somewhere in London, I would presume. I do not know the specifics, though." Mycroft hummed softly. "To be honest, dr. Watson, I was hoping he was with you."

John rubbed his face.

This search was going to be more difficult than he thought. "Well,  _he_  is not. I'm going to call around." he sighed. "Let me know when you find  _him_ , okay?"

"I will. Good night, dr. Watson, " and the government official hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

John stretched his limbs from where he was sitting on the couch and glanced at the time on his phone.

_5 A.M._

He had fallen asleep, somehow. The stress had overtaken him, and with the exhaustion, it had knocked him out. 

Panic filled John again, he needed to act fast. Time was of the essence with missing person cases, right? Or did that not count when the person had been dead for 6 years? 

 

He needed to call some people, which meant contacting people he had literally ignored for the greater part of 6 years.  _This was going to be fun_ , John though grimly.

He began with Lestrade. The phone rang 5 times before Greg answered. The rough London accent was a stark contrast to the posh voice he had just heard.

"What is wrong, John?" Greg immediately said, sounding slightly panicked. John knew this was because they weren't in regular contact and that John would only call if something was very wrong.

"I--" the words seemed stuck in his throat.  _How could he explain that_ he _was back?_  John knew that Greg would think he had gone crazy. That the grief had gotten to him fully and driven him to madness.

"Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?" Greg asked quickly. John could hear ruffling of fabric in the background and the man moving around.

"Lestrade, it's not like that. Can you sit down for me?" John asked softly. He heard the rustling stop and could only hear the breathing on the other side of the line.

" _He_  is back, Greg.  _He_  is alive." John said.

John could hear Greg's breath hitch, and the rustling of movement start again.

"I'm not lying, Greg. Please trust me on this-" John began. He had the feeling Lestrade didn't understand what he meant.

"I heard what you said." Greg sighed.  "I'm coming over, stay there, John,  _please_." And Greg hung up.

 

John sat stunned for a moment. Had he  _really_  understood? Had Greg thought that John had finally gotten too mentally unstable, that he had begun seeing things? John knew he had to convince him  _somehow_.

 

While waiting for Greg to show up, John began cleaning his living room. He didn't know what else to do.

And Greg wouldn't think he was any more stable if he saw garbage everywhere, and all the lights still off.

So, he threw all the garbage away, put all the loose papers in stacks, wiped off the kitchen counter, and turned on the lights. John also opened all the curtains again.

 

He heard a car stop in front of his apartment, quick footsteps, and then a hard knock. He quickly walked up to the front door and before he opened the door, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Greg was his friend. He would trust him, right?

He opened the door and the cool air of the night was the first thing that greeted him. The second thing he saw, was the concerned eyes of Gregory Lestrade. The eyes quickly checked him over, and soon, the man before him seemed to relax.

"Come inside, Greg. Please." John moved out of the way, and Greg moved past him into the living room.

He moved after him and saw that Greg was indeed looking around the room intently. He walked around for a bit, seemingly looking around for some kind of sign that John had  _indeed_  gone crazy. John was afraid to break the silence, but it seemed to drown them both.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked while Greg was standing with his back to him. Greg nodded and turned around.

"I could do with something  _stronger_ , actually," he said when their eyes met.

 

John laughed, at the absurdity of it all.

They were standing here because the genius that bound them all together was back. No one else could understand what this meant. Only the people that had known the detective, knew what kind of impression  _he_  left on people.

John walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet where he kept his liquor. It wasn't much when his sister succumbed to alcohol, it suddenly tasted worse for John.

"Whiskey?" he asked while showing the bottle. Greg nodded and smiled. "You know what?  _Sure_."

While John poured some of the dark liquor in, Greg sat down at the small round kitchen table.

John turned around and saw Greg sitting with his head in his hands. John sat down next to him and put one of the glasses in front of Greg.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, Greg. I didn't know who else to call." John said silently.

"Where is that-" he huffed.  "That bastard?"

John laughed again. There was so much rage in his voice, but so much  _love_  too. Greg had always been special to him. He had been like a father and had always cared for him since he met  _him_.

"I was so mad, Greg. I couldn't let  _him_  in again." He took a swig of his drink. "I just couldn't."

Greg sighed. "You don't know where  _he_  is, do you?" Greg asked after a beat.

John shook his head and avoided the eyes of the man sitting next to him.

"Well, we got to find the asshole, don't we?" Greg placed a hand on John's thigh. "Have you called his brother yet?"

"It was the first thing I did, I thought that he might go to his brother, " John shook his head at the idea, that  _he_  would want to visit his brother at his own volition. "But Mycroft said that  _he_  actually hadn't been in contact for several weeks."

"Fuck." Greg sat back in his chair.

It was silent for a couple of minutes as the two men got lost in their own thoughts.

"How did  _he_  look?" Greg asked suddenly.

John winced at the thought of how  _he_  had looked. "Not well, Greg. I didn't see it at first through my anger, but  _he_  looked awful.  _He_  lost even more weight." John stopped himself for a moment to regain his composure. "The worst thing was:  _he_  looked scared."

"Goddamn it, I was hoping  _he_  looked chipper and had acted like nothing ever happened, " Greg laughed sour, "Then I would have had a reason to be mad."

 

Johns face crumbled at this statement. He knew he had enough reasons to be mad at  _him_ , but they were all petty little things when he looked back at them. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean it like that-" Greg said softly. John cleared his throat and blinked the tears out of his eyes.

"We need to find him, Greg. I wanted  _him_  back so fucking desperately, and when I had  _him_ , I just pushed  _him_ -" his voice broke and tears welled up in his eyes. He hadn't cried in years, especially not in front of anyone.

 

 

"I'll help you find  _him_.  _He_  can't disappear in central London, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the great response to this story. I guess that we are all thirsty for angsty sherlock content, right? (especially whump and sick!fics!)  
> Anyways, this is all still the build-up to the next phase of the story: angst and pain. I won't disappoint you, there's a lot of pain coming, and loads of whump and angst and all that goodness. 
> 
> Please leave your comments below, I love hearing what you think! Kudo's are always nice, they help me figure out if the story is actually any good.
> 
> xxxx


	3. He returns (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He returns (again) and it seems like it was just in time, too.  
> John finally realizes that this is the time his friend needs him the most.

For 2 days, it seemed like someone _could_ disappear in Central London.

 

Those 2 days were the worst ones John had experienced in decades.

 

After his meltdown, John and Greg had discussed how they were going to find him. Greg was going to put a team on the case (“ Fuck that this isn't a homicide. This is more important.”) and John wouldn't go out and look, so that if _he_ returned, John would be there.

Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft sent men looking through London, even asking _his_ old homeless network for help to find _him_.

 

The 48 hours seemed endless.

They gave John to think about his actions. Those piercing blue eyes had looked at him with such fear and hope, that it made John nauseous thinking back to the moment. Looking back, John could see _him_ mouthing sorry, but he had been a selfish git, and let anger swallow everything around him. It was unacceptable to have reacted in such a harsh and judgmental way. It was pure vengeance and not something a doctor should do.

 

He thought about what he wanted to know when _he_ returned. Where were you? Why didn't you contact me? Why did you leave me? Why did you let me _watch_?

Somewhere, deep inside John, he knew he was still mad about the way he was treated. _He_ had traumatised him, let him think that he wasn't there for _him_. _He_ had left John in the dark, and made him feel like the worst friend in history.

 

It also gave him the time to think about the good memories of _him_. The way _he_ smiled when he figured something out. The way _he_ seemed to glow when _he_ was praised. The swish of _his_ coat. The mess and clutter in 221B. The music in the middle of the night when John had awakened from a nightmare. The baritone of _his_ voice. The sparkle of _his_ eyes. The musky but flowery smell _he_ left when _he_ walked by. The way _he_ made John’s heart flutter.

 

The time had lasted _too_ long. Greg and Mycroft were in constant contact with John, but knowing he wasn't in the _field_ , but at home waiting, was the most helpless feeling John had ever faced. He hated the feeling with his whole being, but there wasn't anything he could change. He _knew_ that _he_ would return. _He_ would _._

 

John had thought, around the 39-hour mark, that he had indeed gone crazy. He must have _thought_ he had seen _him,_ right? It was all a mistake and they would move on next week, surely. He had just mistaken a homeless man for his dead best friend. He wasn't crazy. He did feel like he was getting close though.

He felt an electric sensation on his arms, like the sun, but it made him hyper-aware of his surroundings.

 

He moved around the flat, like a rat in a cage. He moved around furniture and then moved it back to the place it had been originally standing. He cleaned ( _a lot_ ).

He opened and closed the windows.

He stood and sat.

He ate and slept.

He watched telly.

He read a book.

This all didn't make him less anxious, though.

He had energy in him, that was impossible for him to get out. He felt anxious, restless and felt like this was his purgatory.

He felt like he almost had indeed gone mad.

 

Until he heard _that_ knock on the door. 

This time, the knock wasn't hard to recognize. He realized that he might have been waiting for that sound. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, actually not doing anything in particular, just sitting there, waiting for something to happen. His head had shot up, almost so quickly that he gave himself whiplash. He knocked the chair backwards and sprinted into the hallway. His pulse was racing as he opened the door.

 

The sun was setting and the street was cast in a golden glow. It had been warm again, that day. The cool air was the thing that he noticed first. It felt good because his skin felt hot from the adrenaline that was coursing through his body.

The second thing he noticed was _him_.

He wasn’t dressed in dirty clothes this time, he was wearing a suit that looked extremely cheap, with the creases from the packaging still in the clothes. He was trembling and swaying more distinctly this time.

Or was it because John knew he had to look for a tremble?

Johns gaze moved up and he locked eyes once more. The storm blue eyes were blood shot and one was surrounded by an old bruise.

Johns breathed hitched, it was still surreal to see those wonderful eyes once more. He also saw the sheen of sweat on the forehead of his best friend.

“I’m sorry, John.” the man said with a rough voice, through chapped lips.

John shook his head. “I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he closed his eyes.

“ _Sherlock_.”

Tears filled his eyes when he said the name, which he hadn't said since the Funeral. He couldn't say it when he was filled with so much hate and grief. But those emotions weren't necessary now. John hadn’t even dared to think about the name. It was so hard when there were so many annotations with one person. A person who had ruined his life, but had saved it first.

 

He looked up to see Sherlock again, but when he saw his friend, he saw that he was swaying much more extremely. He saw that Sherlock was losing energy quickly, and stepped forward to support him. Sherlock flinched away from him, but John pushed through and slung one arm around his waist.

Sherlock was trying to push away, “John-”

“Let’s go inside, okay? We’ll talk afterwards.” John said with determination.

He wasn't going to let go of his friend, not now.

 

They moved inside slowly, Sherlock was clearly unsteady on his feet. John put him down on the couch carefully.

He put his hands on his hips, looking his friend over.

Sherlock breath was laboured, as if he had just run through London.

The suit was clearly poorly fitting, and _very_ cheap, even John could see this. Sherlock was still wearing sneakers, which looked like they had gone to hell and back themselves.

John wanted to speak, but at that moment Sherlock’s head fell backwards, bouncing on the back of the couch.

“Shit,” John cursed silently.

Sherlock was in worse shape than he had expected.

John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and moved him sideways, so he was laying on the couch properly. This movement didn't wake him, which concerned John. He took Sherlock’s pulse, which was soft and irregular, and checked his pupils, which were okay.

“Fuck,” he sighed. He needed to check over his friend properly. He didn't have the supplies to care for him either. He would need drips, and pain medication and a heart monitor, at least.

It wasn't an option to bring a legally “ _dead_ ” person to the hospital, and also there was risk that it would leak to the press.

So, he called Mycroft.

The telephone rang for 4 times before he heard a soft spoken Mycroft. “He’s back,” John said immediately, so the government official knew he was calling for something important. “But I desperately need some equipment. Is there any way that you can get that over here, if I message you a list?”

He heard the man sigh, “Is it life threatening?” Mycroft asked in clipped tones.

“No, at least I don't think so. I do think he's very weak and tired.” he said as he looked back at the unconscious man on the couch.

“Alright, nothing you can't handle, Dr. Watson?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine if you get that equipment here.” John said slightly more annoyed, he did not have to be chit chatting.

“Consider it done, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft said with more determination, and hung up.

 

John felt slightly more at ease, knowing that supplies were coming soon. He looked back at the man, and cringed internally at the awkward position the too short couch was causing.

He needed help to move him to the bedroom. John was strong, but he didn't want to move a patient with brute force, it needed to be done without causing more harm or discomfort.

He needed Greg.

The phone rang for 2 times before Greg answered. “Hello?” Greg asked when John didn't immediately speak. “He’s come back, Greg. He’s here with me.”

He heard a sigh with relief, “Thank God.”

John waited for a moment.

“Greg, can you come over? I need help. He’s in worse shape than I thought, I need an extra pair of hands.” John asked.

“Yes, of course, I’ll be there in 20.” John wanted to thank him, but Greg had already hung up.

 

That meant that John was on his own for the moment.

He looked at Sherlock, and decided that he was stable enough for John to run upstairs and grab his medical bag and flannels. He laid his equipment down on the coffee table, and walked to the kitchen to grab a basin and fill it with water.

John returned to Sherlock’s side and began looking him over (superficially) again. His hands moved methodically, almost automatically. His training kicked in automatically, and he had to remind himself, that this was not a war victim, but his friend. And that they were in London, not in Afghanistan.

John knew he was checking him so thoroughly, because he wanted to make sure that his dead best friend, was actually alive.

He put his stethoscope in his ears, and on Sherlock’s chest. He heard soft deep breathing and the hollow _thump, thump, thump_.

He heard the signs of life. From the man, he saw jump off-

His hands began to tremble and his vision blurred.

He blinked the tears away and forced himself to keep breathing steadily.

 _Do something,_ he told himself. _Make yourself useful._

He pulled the basin with water closer on the table, he wet flannel in the lukewarm water. He pushed the curls out of Sherlock’s face, and silently wiped away the grime and layer of sweat.

 

John knew at that moment, that he couldn't help but forgive the git, for everything he had caused. Sherlock Holmes had that power over him, without even knowing it.

He continued wiping away the dirt and slowly made his way down Sherlock’s neck and onto his chest.

He did it with such a gentle touch, that someone might have thought that Sherlock was made of glass.

As John cleaned Sherlock’s chest and saw little scars and much bigger ones from lacerations. the He pushed away the fabric of the shirt he was wearing, so he could reach the side of his torso better. John saw the ends of much bigger lacerations, ones which looked angry and red.

John’s breath hitched, what had caused those?

It immediately explained why Sherlock was so tired, his body was desperately fighting off infections.

He wanted to examine Sherlock’s back better, but he heard a knock on the front door.

He hurried to the front door and was greeted by Greg, with a portable heart monitor slung over his shoulder and a black box in his hands.

“A man just pushed these in my hands, he said you ordered these?” Greg said while John let him step inside.

“Yeah, the miracles of Mycroft Holmes.” John said apologetically and took the box out of Greg’s hands.

Greg seemed to waver in the hallway. “He’s in the living room,” John encouraged.

Greg nodded and straightened his shoulders. They walked into the room silently. John heard Greg’s breath catch in his throat. John placed the box on the floor and turned back to Greg. John noted he had paled considerably and looked like he was desperately trying to keep himself together.

“Bloody hell,” Greg whispered, eyes still locked onto Sherlock.

As if he had felt the change of atmosphere, Sherlock stirred with a little groan. John knelt at his side immediately, one hand on Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock seemed to have difficulty crawling out of the tendrils of sleep.

“It’s okay,” John whispered, cringing when Sherlock’s face scrunched up in pain. John hadn't even noticed Greg moving next to him, but the older man had knelt next to him, and took hold of Sherlock’s hand.

After a couple of seconds, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, still looking glazed and bloodshot.

“There you are,” John said gently.

Sherlock's eyes moved over John’s face, and then over to Greg. His eyes fell shut, and for a moment John thought he had lost consciousness again.

“Greg,” Sherlock slurred.

“Yes, I’m here, you dumbass,” Greg said while he rubbed his thumb over the young man's hand.

Sherlock huffed and the corner of his lips seemed to curl up slightly.

He took a deep breath in, and his face scrunched up in pain again. There was a moment of silence before Sherlock said: “I’m sorry,”

John and Greg shot a look at each other before Greg said: “There's nothing to be sorry for, you-” Greg let his head drop. ”You have nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me?”

But Sherlock had fallen asleep, or lost consciousness again.

“Fuck,” Greg said as he leaned backwards on his feet. “Fuck.” he said again as he rubbed his face.

 

“Are you okay?” John asked carefully, while looking at the older man next to him. Greg nodded softly, eyes still locked onto Sherlock.

John knew that Greg was going through the same feelings, which John had felt just 3 days ago. Maybe Greg just had super human empathy, but John couldn’t understand how Greg had never been furious. The only explanation John could think of was that Greg saw Sherlock more as a kid, than as a friend, which caused Greg to care for Sherlock on another level than John or Mycroft.

John shook off the thoughts _You need to be a doctor,_ he told himself. _That is all you can give Sherlock now._

 _“_ Okay,” he began, as he took Sherlock’s pulse once more and checked other vital signs quickly. „Greg, I want to move him to my bed. He needs all the comfort he can get.” John moved from the side of the couch to behind Sherlock’s head. He pushed his arms under and around Sherlock, and took hold of his wrists to give him more support. “Can you grab his ankles and knees?”

Greg did what he was told in silence, which concerned John slightly. “Ready? Three, two, one,” and they lifted the man together.

 

They got Sherlock positioned on the bed and Greg sighed deeply afterwards. “Tell me if you don’t feel okay, Greg. I don’t want you to break down, okay?” John said with a tone which condoned no lying. “I- It’s just- Seeing him like this breaks my heart, John.” Greg rubbed his face. “I thought after I helped him get off drugs, I would have never have to see him like that again,” Greg sat down on the side of the bed, shoulders slumped forward. “When he died, I had one night where I missed the bloody detox. I would have given anything to have him back on my couch, puking on me, and even cussing me to hell and back while doing it too.” John sat next to him, and rubbed Greg’s shoulder. “This is different, John. He looks absolutely broken.”

John knew Greg was right. Their friend looked run down, and just absolutely exhausted. “I know.” John said with a sigh and stood up. “Stay here, I’m going to grab the equipment.” he said.

 

John ran to the living room, and returned with all the equipment he had.

Greg was holding Sherlock’s hand, and still looked defeated. John laid the equipment down, and grabbed an old rugby tee and pajama pants out of a drawer. “Before I begin treating him, let’s get him out of _that_. It looks bloody uncomfortable.”

 

They worked in silence, Greg removed the trainers, John cut the jacket and shirt of him entirely, which caused him to see the extent of the injuries more clearly. But Greg cleared his throat, and broke through John’s train of thought. “John,” Greg said softly, while focusing on Sherlock’s feet. John walked up next to Greg, and followed his line of sight. “Are those..?” Greg said.

“Cigarette burns.” John concluded. The burns didn’t look fresh, but they weren’t years old either. They were littered on the underside of Sherlock’s feet, like someone had carelessly used the soft and tender skin as an ashtray.

 

John felt the ball of fury return as quickly as it had subsided. This time not towards his friend, but towards the people that had caused these injuries. He balled up his hands and hit the mattress twice. He pushed his palms against his eyes and forced his breath to even out, like he had learned from his first therapist. “Greg, can you fetch me my phone, and call Mycroft,” he said through gritted teeth, “And ask him, what the hell happened?”

 

Greg hurried to find the phone, but it gave John the time to work on autopilot for 5 minutes. He administered a fluid line, and hung the fluids from an old hook above the bed. He took Sherlock’s blood pressure and connected him to the heart monitor. He took his temperature and quickly felt his lymph nodes. Thankfully, the results weren’t too bad. The heart rate was high, but could be way worse, and his temperature was 38 degrees, but this was caused by the infection John had seen on his back. And his friend looked ghastly, with ribs protruding more clearly now, and his cheekbones almost slicing through the skin that stretched over it. 

At that moment, Greg walked back into the room. “Mycroft is coming over. The information was ‘too classified’ for the phone.” Greg almost growled. “He’ll be here in an hour.”

 

“He has a lot to explain.” John muttered. “But I’m not even sure I want to _know_ what happened.”

Greg stepped closer. “Anything I can do?”

“Help me turn him on his side.” John said, knowing he had to care now, and think later.

The two men efficiently turned Sherlock, which meant John had full view of Sherlock’s back for the first time.

The once smooth white skin, was now wrinkled and rough. Old scars were spread over the skin, small ones, some clearly older than 6 years, but some still pink and shiny. But the thing that knocked the air out of John, were the lacerations and gashes which seemed to be spread out on every inch of the alabaster skin. Most of them were once cared for, evident from the stitches, but a couple were inflamed, angry and red looking, and some stitches were torn. John leaned closer, holding his breath, to inspect the injuries in greater detail.

He could see that there had been some treatment, but this had to have been some time ago. John thought back at what Mycroft had said that first day.

_“To answer your question, my brother is not with me nor has he been in contact with me in the last couple weeks.”_

_So, at least a couple weeks, since proper treatment._

But, the injuries looked better than expected for the timeframe. John had the feeling that Sherlock had tried to care for them as well as he could, probably without _any_ help, which was nearly impossible for one person.

John reached for the bag next to him on the ground, and grabbed a pair of gloves and tweezers. He quickly removed the torn stitches, so he could clean the area properly.

Then, something dawned on John.

 _I caused this,_ he told himself, _I pushed him down._

He had caused the stitches to tear, seeing that Sherlock had clearly tried to be careful and let them heal.

“What’s wrong?” Greg said from beside him. Apparently, John had stilled completely, while being pulled into that train of thought. 

“I pushed him onto the ground.” John said breathlessly.

“Sorry, say that again?” Greg said, leaning closer.

“I pushed him onto the ground.” John said more clearly now. “With _those_ injuries.”

“What-” Greg began, but was interrupted by John suddenly standing up.

“I’m a fucking _moron_ , Greg!” he said, and pulled off the gloves he had been wearing.

Greg didn’t say anything for a moment, while John began pacing.

He then stepped forward and grabbed John’s shoulders. “Yes, you were a _moron_ for doing that, I can’t disagree.” He said while looking John straight in the eyes. “But right now, you have a chance to redeem yourself. Be a goddamn wonderful best friend, and do your job. _Fix_ him. After that, you can wallow in self-pity.” He continued, grabbing John’s shoulders firmly.

John licked his lips quickly, shocked by this outburst of emotion from the man he knew as soft hearted.

“Okay?” Greg asked, a soft shake accompanying the request.

John nodded and Greg let him go. John closed his eyes for a moment, to give himself a second to let go of all the thoughts that were spinning through his mind.

 _You were given a second chance,_ he thought, _so don’t fuck up now._

He turned back to Sherlock, and sat down on the side of the bed.

“Greg, can you grab me a basin with warm water?” He asked, while pulling other equipment out of the bag and box.

“Let’s do this.” he muttered to himself and began working. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank Londonlioness, because she helped me so much with the grammar/nitpicking in this but also the upcoming chapters. I can't thank you enough! 
> 
> I really hope you all like this (thick) chapter. Don't forget to leave a comment and kudo's, they absolutely make my day!!


	4. Things have changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, tries, to explain what happened.

John was just done with treating Sherlock for the moment, when there was a knock from the front door. Greg immediately stood up, and walked to the door. He had been acting like John’s nurse for the last hour, and took the opportunity to be away from the sight of his sick and injured friend.

He opened the door, and saw the government official standing in front of him. “Good evening, DI Lestrade.” the man said, while leaning on an black umbrella.

“I wouldn’t call it _good_ ,” Greg responded, as he stepped aside to let the man in. Greg saw Mycroft smile a bit, when he passed him, something he couldn’t recall seeing before. He closed the door and followed the man into the living room.

John was standing in the room, with his arms crossed. “I want to know, right now, what the _fuck_ happened in the past 6 years,” John said with clipped syllables.

“Good evening to you too, dr. Watson,” Mycroft said and sat down on one of the lounge chairs. “I’m not sure my, dear, brother would appreciate me telling you the tale from when he was away,” He while maintaining eye contact with John.

John huffed, and sat down on the couch. “I think I deserve to know, Mycroft,”

“Yes, dr. Watson, you deserve to know, but I think my brother would fear you would look at him differently afterwards. He wants everything to be the same, he wants what he had, 6 years ago,”

Greg sat down in the second lounge chair, and leaned back. “Nothing can be the same, when you made everyone believe you _died_ ,” Greg muttered.

“Tell that to my brother,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Before I tell you anything, I want to know how he’s doing,”

“Fine, for the moment. I treated the injuries and gave him medication to fight off the infections,” John explained. “I think he’s just resting, at the moment,”

“That’s good. Thank you, dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, and looked down at his hands. “I want you both to know _why_ he did it, before I tell you what happened.”

“Go on,” Greg said.

“Moriarty had made sure there were hired killers shadowing all of you,” He said and looked up at John. “If he didn’t jump, you, Greg and Mrs. Hudson would be killed, immediately,”

John let his head drop into his hands. He didn’t expect that Sherlock had done it to, literally, save him. And not only him, but also his other two friends.

“I also have to mention, John,” Mycroft continued, “That, you weren’t supposed to _see_ it happen. This, let’s say ‘ _bothered_ ’ my brother a great deal.”

John took a deep breath through his nose, to counteract the feeling that his lungs would implode at any minute. “Where did the injuries come from?” he asked through the crushing sensation in his throat. He needed to know now, he couldn’t bear listening to all of this any longer.

“Right,” Mycroft said with a nod. “Serbia, mostly. But also, Italy, India and Iceland. And another handful of countries,”

“He traveled all over the world to dismantle Moriarty’s network, or as Sherlock liked to call it: the _web_. It consisted of dozens of highly trained individuals, mostly criminals, but also IT and chemistry experts,” Mycroft added. “It was very nuanced. Underground, but never without _flair_. So, it was never easy, and it didn’t all happen as planned,”

“Dismantle? What do you mean?” Greg interjected.

“He had to, get rid of all the employees, to make sure no one would come to finish the job,” Mycroft scratched his chin. “Sherlock believed there was an account with a large sum, for the person who finished what Moriarty started. Enough encouragement for a lot of people, to give it a try,”

“Did he do it? Dismantle it?” Greg asked.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but closed it again, when he saw his brother enter the room. Sherlock was wearing an oversized tee with the cheap polyester trousers. He almost looked like a ghost, with the light from the corridor illuminating his prone form from behind.

“I told you,” he said, and grasped the edge of the door. “I told you not to tell them. I begged you, Mycroft,” Sherlock sounded disgusted, but his voice had an edge of melancholy. The three men stood up in shock, and Mycroft stepped closer to keep his brother upright.

“Do not touch me,” Sherlock hissed, while pushing his brothers’ hands away. John saw the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s face, and how much his frame was trembling. Because Sherlock was somewhat more lucid, John also noticed how on edge his friend was. His eyes were darting around, clearly looking for the places where he could flee and where intruders could come from. John’s heart contracted, he remembered this stance from soldiers at the recovery ward. They woke up in a cold sweat and screamed at nurses to get down because they were in danger. It was an automatic thing, John knew, but it didn’t make it any easier to look at. John remembered it reminded him of scared stray dogs, back then.

Sherlock wiped his bangs from his face with a shaking hand.

 _He looks like a mess_ , John thought.

 _You did too when you came back,_ his mind added.

“Maybe, you want to sit, mate?” Greg offered with a slight smile, when the silence stretched.

Sherlock shook his head and licked his chapped lips. John saw that his eyes were flickering from window to window and back to the group surrounding him. John was, again, reminded of soldiers after war, who had learned to be fearful of windows where they could be spotted by the enemy or worse, a sniper.

“I’m going to close the curtains, okay?” John said, softly, and started walking towards the window. He saw Sherlock tense up first, and then when the curtains of one of the windows were closed, relax a bit. John continued, till all the curtains were fully closed.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, some the nervous energy seemed to seep out of him, making his shoulders sag, and knees buckle. Mycroft had apparently seen it coming, because he had his arms around Sherlock in an instant, preventing Sherlock from falling. “Let’s get you onto the couch, then,” Mycroft said, and Greg stepped forward to help them to reach the couch safely.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock growled, when he was seated, “I’m not some sort of wounded _animal._ ”

“We’re just a bit shocked,” Greg said, motioning from him to John. “That’s all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You did just return from the dead,” John added.

Sherlock rubbed his face again, clearly trying to wake himself some more. “Mycroft, it seems like you have given them _enough_ information, so you can _leave_ again,” Sherlock said while locking eyes with Mycroft.

Mycroft looked from Sherlock, to John. “Dr. Watson, you’re capable enough, I assume?”

Sherlock huffed. “Of course, he is. Now, leave,”

Apparently, that was enough to convince the government official, because he turned in silence and left the room without looking back.

 

A heavy silence lay onto the room, constricting everyone in it. Sherlock sat with his hands in his hair, pulling softly in frustration. John stood next to him, now not knowing what to do. Greg stood farther away, and looked at his watch, it was almost eleven already. Greg cleared his throat, “It’s getting late,” He said, “Can I help with anything, John?”

“No, it’s fine, Greg, thanks for all the help. We’ll manage.” John said with a sad smile.

“Call me, if you need anything. I can be here within half an hour,” Greg stepped forward and patted John’s shoulder.

“See you later, Greg,” John said when Greg left the room.

 

The silence intensified. It coiled and writhed between the two men. John could hear the rough breathing beside him. He felt like they were going to disappear in the arms of the silence descending on them, pulling them to another world, somewhere they would be forgotten. He hated that this was what they had become.

John sat down next to the anxious figure. He reached out and grabbed the trembling hands from where they were pulling at the greasy curls. He pulled the hands down, holding them firmly. The two men locked eyes. The silence expanded, and said more than a thousand words. John might not yet know what Sherlock had been through, but he understood fully that it would require time to heal.

John saw Sherlock’s eyes flicker over his face, deducing how those 6 years had changed him.

John could almost see the thousands of thoughts racing through his head. John let go of Sherlock’s hands and placed one of the cushions on one of his thighs. He gently grabbed Sherlock’s face. He looked confused, even frowned a little, but didn’t struggle when John softly pulled him towards his chest. John positioned Sherlock’s head on the cushion, and left one of his hands on Sherlock’s hair. One of Sherlock’s hands reached up, and grasped at John’s hand in his hair. John took it, and held it firmly.

Sherlock emitted a deep sigh and his hand went slack in Johns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a comment and maybe some kudo's :)


	5. I've missed you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to tell John about his time away, but maybe he's not ready.

John woke up at a noise. He looked beside him, but Sherlock was gone.

For a quick moment, John’s heart leapt. _Had it all been a dream? Had it been some sort of nightmare ending well?_ He felt his fingers numb as his eyes looped around the room, searching for any sign of Sherlock. There was an eerie silence, as if between breaths, a quietness which could not be replicated.

Then, he heard a distinct retching noise from the bathroom.

John let out the breath he had been holding.

“Sherlock?” he called, and walked to the bathroom.

It was early in the morning. The sun was just breaking through, and promising another lovely summer day. The light cast long shadows on the lino floors, moving around gently with the wind. It was serene-

The retching continued. John knocked on the door. He could see the morning light shining under the door, with a shadow slowly moving around.

“I’m coming in,” he called when there was no answer.

He opened the door, and entered.

Sherlock was hunched over the toilet, fingers grasping the porcelain. The soft light was shining through the little bathroom window in ribbons, illuminating only strips of the room. John could distinctly see the dust floating in the air, little particles dancing around, twirling around each other.

John stepped forward and crouched down beside him, laying a hand on Sherlock’s bicep. John felt him tremble, immensely.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, through the curls that hung over his face. John couldn’t see his face in the shadow, as the little light was just illuminating him from the back.

John laid his hand over the clam forehead, not much more elevated than the night before. So, his physical state hadn’t worsened _too_ drastically.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, voice rough with sleep. It was the only thing he could ask, right now, but he felt the other unanswered questions burn in his throat. Questions John wanted answered so badly, but maybe it was better that he didn’t know the truth.

He could feel Sherlock tense up, a slight change which altered the feeling in the room drastically. He could feel Sherlock fighting _something._ Maybe he was fighting with himself. John had done that enough after the war. Feeling stuck in his own head.

It was hard trying to act normal when you felt like an alien in your own body.

Sherlock spat in the toilet before speaking. “Can you let me go?” It was not even a question, more a plea.

John let him go immediately, not wanting to cause more harm. _Have you missed an injury on his arm?_ John asked himself.

“Is your arm hurting you?” John asked, leaning back to see more clues for physical pain.

John didn’t know if Sherlock had actually _heard_ him, but a low moan escaped from Sherlock’s throat as he gripped the porcelain harder.

“What is hurting, Sherlock?” John asked with more confidence, knowing that something was hurting after that god awful sound escaped him.

John could see Sherlock’s face scrunch up in pain. _Or was it frustration?_ John thought for a second.

Sherlock hit the top of the toilet seat with his other hand, first with a flat hand, then with more desperation and frustration with a fist.

John wanted to stop him, but Sherlock moved from his kneeling position to a sideward sitting position against the tub, next to the toilet. He pushed his sweaty curls from his face, with his good arm and let the other hang slack against his body.

 The light from the window behind the tub caused a halo to form around Sherlock’s head, even as it hung low. It was beautiful, even as it caused John’s heart to ache.

John decided he needed more light to treat Sherlock, so he stood up and flicked the light switch.

Bright yellow light filled the small room, the change making Sherlock gasp.

John moved slowly, closer and crouched down in front of his friend.

John could see the panic in Sherlock’s eyes. It clouded them, as if a layer had moved on top of them, blocking him from the real world. He looked severely confused, his eyes flickering around the room, seemingly not _seeing_ anything.

John saw him slipping into the fear, his breaths coming quicker, shorter, as if he didn’t have any oxygen to breath.

 

John was reminded of a sergeant he had met after he had returned to London. They had worked together for 2 weeks, and hadn’t seen each other for at least 6 months since then. They had recognized each other in the pub, and started exchanging stories from their time away. It had been nice, John had forgotten about his own problems for a while. The man had said he needed the loo, and had shuffled away. John had sat there for 20 minutes, before he had decided to check on the man. He walked to the toilets, and saw no one. For a moment, he thought the Sergeant had bailed on him, but he then heard small gasping breaths coming from one of the stalls. He had been in the middle of a severe panic attack. John heard later, at the funeral, that the man had been held captive for 5 days, and left the army after. He couldn’t cope with what he had been through. The sergeant killed himself 8 days after John had seen him. John was asked to help carry the casket.

 

“Sherlock,” John said softly, holding his hands, palms up. “I’m going to touch you, now.”

John moved slowly forward, and grabbed Sherlock’s elbows firmly. This seemed to pull Sherlock out of his trance, because his eyes flickered up and met John’s.

“Hey. Try to breath with me, in,” John inhaled exaggeratedly, “and out,” and he blew his breath out of his mouth. Sherlock seemed to try, but failed to take a good breath in.

“Again,” John said, and repeated the rhythm. That time went better, and John kept going till Sherlock’s eyes cleared up.

“I was _back._ ” Sherlock said after the 6th time.

John was surprised. He hadn’t planned confronting Sherlock yet, or having a talk about what happened. But if Sherlock felt the need, he couldn’t stop him.

“Back where?” John asked, not yet letting Sherlock go.

„Back- Back in-„ He sputtered, „The room just disappeared, _John,_ I was _back_.” John saw his breath hitch again,

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You’re in London. You’re fine now. You’re with me.” John pinched his elbows a bit, “You’re _safe_.”

Sherlock sighed, his face crumbling. “I _know.”_ he whispered.

John’s heart ached for his friend. The fight he was having with himself was so _clear._ The frustration was beaming off the man, coming in waves.

There was a long silence, only broken by the heavy breath of Sherlock and the _tip tap tap_ of the leaky tap.

“What did Mycroft tell you?” Sherlock asked, with a small voice.

John swallowed, looking up to the ceiling for a moment.

Mycroft hadn’t said much, but there was enough subtext for John to figure out a lot of what happened.

 

_“He traveled all over the world to dismantle Moriarty’s network,”_

John sighed inwardly. “Not much. Only that you went after Moriarty’s web,”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. “Went after? That’s one way to say it.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to,” John said, seeing the remaining tremor in Sherlock’s body.

The silence stretched and morphed.

“And we can do it later, I could do with a cuppa.” John added.

John released Sherlock’s arms, slowly, not to startle him again. John was about to stand up, when he felt Sherlock’s hand tighten around his. It was only for a moment, but it said enough for now. It radiated trust.

John smiled at him, and something bloomed in his chest. Something he recognized? A weird type of nostalgia?

“Let’s get you off these tiles, I can’t imagine them being comfortable,” John said as he pulled Sherlock off the ground.

“I’ve had worse,” Sherlock huffed.

They walked to the kitchen in silence, John gently supporting Sherlock to the kitchen table and sitting him down. John began making tea and he thought back to the times he was caught in panic and people encircled him and wanted to know what was wrong. John knew better than that, and gave his friend some space to breathe.

He set the steaming cup of tea in front of Sherlock and sat down on the chair next to him.

The silence hung in the air while John looked at his friend. Sherlock had his hands clasped around the cup and looking at the umber liquid in the ceramic cup. John saw Sherlock’s jaw muscles tense as he turned his head to look at John.

“It didn't go as planned.” Sherlock said, quietly. “Nothing went as I thought it would.”

John kept quiet. He knew from the cases years back, that Sherlock had difficulty with things not going as planned.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the room once more. “I thought it would only take a couple years,” he shook his head.

They both stayed silent. That piece of information made the hairs on the back of Johns neck stand up straight.

“It all went south after Dubai.” Sherlock said after minutes. John could hear life outside start to begin again. People rushing to work. Parents trying to rush their children off to school.

“I had gotten injured while,” he took a deep breath. “while I was _dealing_ with someone from the web.”

“I wasn't in good shape. I realize that now, but back then I thought,” he sighed. “I thought I could continue, I wanted to get back home as soon as possible.” he laughed bitterly. “I had only been away for 5 months.”

“I couldn't think straight. It was unnerving. It caused me to make a mistake.” Sherlock gripped the cup tighter.

John saw that Sherlock was forcing the information out. It was like he was using pure will to get this information to John.

John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock looked up at John again. John smiled slightly. He didn't know what to tell the man. He looked on edge, like anything could set him off. John pinched Sherlock’s wrist softly, a silent: “I am here.”

Sherlock took a sip of the steaming tea, grimacing after he swallowed it. “Did you dump the whole canister of sugar in this?”

John laughed. “It can't hurt you, you look like you need some extra calories.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took another sip.

The two men sat with each other in silence. The sun was shining through the gaps of the curtains, casting a glow on the room. They listened to the sounds, content with each other.

Sherlock finished his cup of tea, and spoke when he placed it down. “I’ve missed you.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. He had never heard Sherlock, the self-made sociopath, utter something so honest and human. It was so unlike him, but maybe everything that had happened since he returned had been so unlike him.

“I’ve missed you too.”

They looked away from each other, the heavy emotion not something they were used to.

John didn't notice Sherlock looking back at him. The low baritone voice sounded gruff. “You have changed,” Sherlock observed.

John looked back, a small smile on the edge of his lips. “So have you.” he retorted.

Sherlock smiled and looked at his hands. It took a moment before he looked up again and let his eyes glide over Johns features. John almost wanted to dissolve in thin air, the gaze was so intense. Sherlock leaned forward and placed his hand on the side of Johns' face. “You have more wrinkles,” he said softly. If it wasn't Sherlock, he would have been embarrassed and angry, but he knew Sherlock started it as a fact. “and more grey hairs.”

John leaned forward and laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “You have more scars,” he stated.

He felt Sherlock tense a bit under his hand. “but your eyes still look the same,” John added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm truly proud of this chapter. I've tried some new things and let myself just go wild. I would really appreciate hearing what you all think of this chapter and how I could improve. 
> 
> I haven't written anything else yet and my exams are coming up, so, I don't think there will be any more chapters before late May or June. I'm going to focus on school, let's hope I graduate. 
> 
> Anyway, don't forget to leave kudo's, write a comment and maybe bookmark? So you don't miss the new chapter ;)  
> Lots of love, Izzy


	6. Witching hour

Sherlock was quieter after their conversation. John saw him staring into space more often. At first, he was happy to see Sherlock more tranquil, after all, anything was better than that animalistic fear that had beamed off him. But then he saw Sherlock become a shell. An empty mannequin. He would sit at the kitchen table for hours, staring out of the window at the back garden. John would sit with him, sometimes, and hold his hand in silence. Their breathing would never quite synchronize.  
Sherlock had transformed the couch into a bed, without asking John for help. John thought it was about dignity, being able to handle things on your own.  
John was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. It was the third night after their first conversation. They hadn’t had a full-on talk since. He didn’t know what Sherlock expected from him. If he even expected anything. John did know that Sherlock wanted things back to normal, so John tried to be his ‘normal’ self. He didn’t know if that version of himself was something he could turn back to. He wasn’t the ‘John’ he once was. Not the ‘John’ he was when he met Sherlock. The same could be said about Sherlock. John knew how to cope with Sherlock’s black moods. At least he thought he could. Sherlock was just not the same. It was like using the rules of chess while playing soccer.  
John could hear Sherlock moving around in the flat. The sound of sock-clad feet on the linoleum. The sound of the tap running in the kitchen. Water running. A soft flow between John’s shallow breaths. Running. The sound of the tap running in the kitchen.  
John looked at his clock. _3:28 AM_. Was that the witching hour?  
He moved towards the kitchen, trying not to be silent. He didn’t want to startle Sherlock in any way. The light from lanterns outside flowed into the kitchen through the gaps of the curtains. The water hadn’t stopped. He sour smell of sick wafted towards him. John stepped forward and turned the tap off. Something grabbed his hand.  
He reacted too quickly. Automatism. He pulled his hand back and with it, his whole body.  
It was Sherlock, he had been sitting on the kitchen floor. He saw him scramble up, push his back to the wall. “I’m going,” Sherlock whispered as he turned to the living room. His frail form moved to the pull-out sofa, where he sat down.  
John had been standing, ready to fight, blood pumping, fast, faster, dopamine, adrenaline, flowing together. He breathed out slowly, letting his shoulders sag.  
Sherlock shook his head lightly. “I can’t,” he said.  
“What did you say?” John asked while walking towards Sherlock again. With every step, closer, John could see more of Sherlock break away, crumble, fall.  
Sherlock was grabbing his clothing – 2 shirts, the polyester trousers and John’s old hoodie – holding them close to his chest. The bulk of the clothing spilt over his arms. “I can’t keep _pretending_ ,” He said as his hands clawed at the fabric to keep them close to him. The clothing almost seemed to move on its own.  
“You don’t have to pretend,” John whispered. His voice seemed too strong, he kept it low, fearing the damage if he spoke too loudly.  
Sherlock’s head whipped up. “I would be a stranger to you.”  
“It would be an honour to meet you, again.”  
John could see Sherlock’s hands grip the clothing. Sherlock pulled his arms towards him, squishing the fabric, as if he could tumble into the depths of the fabric, never to be seen again. He closed his eyes, scrunching up his face. “What did Mycroft tell you?” He asked again, avoiding eye contact.  
“What I told you before,” John said honestly. Mycroft had been secretive and mysterious about Sherlock’s whereabouts.  
They were quiet together. London was quiet with them. The light entering through the kitchen gave the room a dreamlike glow. He saw just enough, but not enough, at the same time.  
Sherlock inhaled sharply. “I had to _kill_ ,” he said, looking towards John but not meeting his eyes.  
John frowned insignificantly. Licked his lips. He didn’t know what he had expected to hear. “What?” John asked, perplexed.  
Sherlock gagged. Then dropped the clothing and ran to the kitchen sink again.  
The sound of sock-clad feet on the linoleum. The sound of the tap running in the kitchen. Water running. The sound of Sherlock heaving. The sound of quick feet on the linoleum.  
John laid his hand on Sherlock’s back, pushing the hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” John didn’t know what else to say. He turned the tap off. Sherlock was gasping, John was trying to make soothing noises. “It’s okay,” Sherlock was shaking now, still hunched over the sink. John was surprised that he could touch him. Sherlock had always been okay with casual touches, but never when he was vulnerable. Sherlock wasn’t vulnerable much.  
Sherlock spat into the sink and slumped forward slightly. John interfered, keeping Sherlock steady. He could see that Sherlock was feeling drained, the chaotic energy now simmering under the surface. He grabbed a chair and slid it behind Sherlock, and then softly pushing him back. Sherlock sat with his head low, hands in his lap, twisting together.  
John grabbed another chair and sat down next to his friend. Give him time, he told himself. Don’t push your luck.  
“Don’t you want to know? What happened?” Sherlock whispered after a while.  
“Would it make a difference?” John asked, attempting to make eye contact with Sherlock.  
Sherlock laughed, it was a troubled laugh. He pushed a shaking hand through his hair and the laid it on his chest. He stayed quiet.  
“Do you _want_ to tell me?” John knew that Sherlock didn’t believe in the idea of ‘talking about your problems’. It couldn’t hurt to try, though.  
Sherlock nodded. He bit his lip. Nervous energy seemed to beam off him. “Will you promise it won’t make a difference?”  
John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “I promise.”  
This was a lie, of course, John knew. Everything you do, or say, will make a difference, somehow. He hoped they could both pretend it wouldn’t.  
“The only way I could dismantle the web completely was by killing the associates,” Sherlock said, looking at their hands clasped together. “I managed. It was doable. It felt like an elaborate game, like a puzzle. Then, in the 5th month, I had underestimated one of the associates. He was just a lab worker. I thought he was just a lab worker. Apparently, he was also an avid kickboxer. Had been his whole life. He was so fast. Unlike anything, I had ever seen before. I wanted to eliminate him by an insulin overdose, I was close, had the syringe next to his arm. But he saw, and twisted his body, jumping back. His blond hair reminded me of you, I was thrown for a second, hadn’t slept that night,”  
John cringed internally. He grasped Sherlock’s hand tighter.  
“He punched me in the throat, very efficient. Kicked me onto the ground. He was screaming at me, seeking an answer, I think. He kept me pinned down, he should have punched me into oblivion, maybe that would have saved his life. I pretended to pass out, he loosened his grip, and I grabbed a scalpel from next to me on the ground. _Lucky me!_ ” Sherlock sighed.  
“I stood under the shower in my motel for hours that night. The blood seemed to stick to my skin. The murder had been so _messy_. I kept seeing his face, everywhere. Maybe, he was haunting me,” Sherlock smiled crookedly. “He didn’t go down without a fight; I will give him that. I had a severe concussion, broken ribs and a whole load of bruises, though I didn’t know about the concussion back then. I thought I was fine and continued to the house of another lab worker. He was the last on the list for that city. He was supposed to be home alone. I broke into the house, I thought I could kill him in his sleep. Be merciful and all that. I should have waited a day; I don’t know why I was in such a rush. I couldn’t think logically. I was some sort of killing machine, I had an order and I knew what I had to do. So, I put a pillow over his head and shot with a silencer. Job done. The house was free-standing, so I made the decision to set the place on fire. Used the bed as the starting point. I worked quickly, and soon I stood in front of the house, standing for a moment, enjoying the heat. Everything was so fuzzy, I felt like I was moving through water,” Sherlock’s voice died off. The colour had drained out of his face.  
“I passed out in the motel and woke up on a plane with my brother next to me. I thought I was almost done.” Sherlock was whispering now. John felt his hand tremble in his. “I saw the news seven days later, while I was researching other associates. _‘Two_ dead in a tragic house fire.’” John saw Sherlock swallowing with difficulty. “The child of his younger sister was staying over for the night. She burned alive in the guest room. A neighbour heard her screams.”  
John looked away from Sherlock for a moment. He was glad Sherlock had shared this with him, but the information weighed heavy on his chest, like a blanket enveloping the pair. Sherlock hadn’t killed the child intentionally, obviously, but John couldn’t help but feel a little bit nauseous himself.  
Sherlock’s breaths were coming in shallow gasps now, which made John turn back. Sherlock looked miserable. His skin was beaded with sweat, his bangs sticking to his forehead. All colour had drained from his face.  
“I don’t think any differently about you,” John said, hoping it would calm him down.  
Sherlock was quiet, he grasped John’s hand even tighter. John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s hand, hoping it would reassure him.  
The two of them were quiet together. John didn’t know what Sherlock needed, but maybe his presence was enough. Maybe. A cup of tea could never hurt, so John stood up, letting Sherlock’s hand go. Sherlock didn’t let go, though. His hand stayed clamped around John’s, like a lifeline.  
“I’m going to make some tea, I’m not going anywhere,” He said softly, laying his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment.  
Sherlock swallowed and looked at John. “I think, I might pass out,” He said, sounding like he had experienced this before. John saw his eyelids flutter and felt Sherlock swaying.  
“Let’s get you onto the floor,” He guided Sherlock down, positioning his back against the cabinets and head between his knees. “Now breathe slowly, okay? I’m going to get you something to drink,”  
He grabbed some ginger ale, it was old and the only drink with sugar in the fridge, so it would have to do. “Here you go,” he said as he held the bottle next to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock grabbed it with a shaking hand and took a couple of sips, while John lowered himself next to Sherlock.  
Silence once again. John felt the cold of the cabinet seeping through his shirt. He felt the heat from Sherlock next to him. He felt a piece of their old friendship return, as John mended Sherlock, no questions asked, like he used to do in 221B. Back then, he would grumble as he cleaned wounds, telling Sherlock repeatedly to be careful. Sherlock always replied with: “It’s only transport,” which made John roll his eyes.  
He was brought back to reality when he felt Sherlock lay his head on his shoulder. The curls tickled his neck, he could smell his own shampoo in them. John reached out, hand open, a silent question in the dark. Sherlock answered immediately. Their fingers intertwined, locking, maybe, this was how it was supposed to be.  
“ _It’s all fine_ ,” John whispered into the curls.  
He felt Sherlock smile. “ _I know it’s fine_ ,” Sherlock replied.  
And for a moment, everything was normal. The two of them, together. How it was meant to be. Nothing more, nothing less.  
Well, maybe, something _was_ missing.  
“We should move back to 221B,” John murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait! I was hoping to get back on my feet quicker after my exams, but you know, life is hard.   
> But here I am! Thank you for all the kind words about the last chapter, it warmed my heart.   
> Let me know what you think about this one, 
> 
> xoxo Izzy


	7. Golden knight, John H. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not proof read! Sorry for dumb mistakes!

The move had been easy, John didn't have many possessions. If he had wanted, he could pack _all_ his 'important' belongings in a weekend bag. He used to use that fact to impress friends, family, but was it truly something to be proud of?

While John had been stuffing his clothing into boxes, Sherlock had treaded around him, cleaning up old bandages and packaging. John kept an eye on him, just in case.

John heard Sherlock huff from the corner of the bedroom. He looked around, seeing Sherlock crouched over the ripped clothing he had been wearing when he stumbled back into John's life.

"Sorry about that," John said, a smile dancing around his lips. "I hope it wasn't one of your _favourites,''_

Sherlock stayed quiet.

John stilled.

"It wasn't," Sherlock said. "I bought it with the last of my money after I saw you first,''

"Why, though?"

More silence. Sherlock's hands smoothed the fabric.

"I thought you didn't let me in because I changed too much." He sighed. "A suit was the most logical thing to buy. A different type of armour, one could say,"

John closed his eyes, _breath in, breath out,_ trying to ignore the feeling stabbing in his chest. _If only I had let him into my life immediately-_

"Armour to conquer the mighty healer of the west, golden knight John H. Watson," Sherlock continued, his hands still on the fabric. John could hear the slight smile in his voice, giving his voice an edge of innocence.

John continued putting his clothing away, this time with more anger, resulting in slamming his dresser shut. He saw Sherlock flinch from the corner of his eye but decided to ignore it.

 

* * *

 

John had been right. 221B completed Sherlock, in a way only a home could. He acted like himself, they both did. John made tea, Sherlock sat and flipped through old newspaper clippings while muttering things under his breath. Supposedly, the mutterings were about the idiocy of the human race, or at least something about ' _people being morons, as usual, John!'_.

It hadn't surprised John that the apartment was how they left it, minus a couple of details; such as the rotten insides of a fridge left alone for 6 years and the files about Moriarty. Sherlock had called Mycroft in a panic, when he saw the box of files missing, thinking someone from the 'web' had stolen them. John quietly sat and watched from behind his laptop, watching the red splotches crawling up Sherlock's neck and the tremor in his nimble hands. Mycroft assured Sherlock he had taken them with him because ' _you have solved the case, haven't you? No need digging through old pain because you are bored, brother mine,'._

They acted like themselves, they both did, but it was only keeping up facades. Sherlock kept the curtains closed, at all times, which caused Mrs Hudson to grumble. Sherlock slept more, took naps even, at random times of the day. Sherlock didn't experiment in the kitchen anymore. Sherlock sat next to John and laid his head on John's lap. Sherlock waited for permission to eat.

But, like all things, these _abnormalities_ , became normal.

 

* * *

 

John was getting groceries, an escape from the suffocating insides of 221B to take a breath of normalcy. He was standing in the tea aisle, inspecting the different tea's, while humming along with a song breaking through the dusty speakers. 'Normal' breakfast tea, wasn't the norm anymore. 'Normal' was choosing a tea to fit your mood, or even better, a tea to fix your life.

"Don't like ' _luxury lucky organic matcha green tea for better digestion'_?" a voice asked from next to him.

The voice belonged to a blonde woman with sparkling eyes and a wonderful smile. He returned her smile. "What could be _lucky_ about better digestion? I don't trust a _lucky_ digestive track," He said while frowning at that particular tea box.

The woman laughed. "I'm sorry for taking you out of your trance, but you looked so mad!" she said with a giggle. "I'm Mary, by the way,"

"I'm sorry," he said while shaking his head. "I'm John," he shook her hand.

She grabbed a box of green tea from one of the shelves and dropped it in her basket.

"Haven't we met before?" John asked.

She shook her head, not meeting his eye. "I don't think so, I would have remembered you," She grabbed a pink box of tea from the shelf, grabbing a pen from her pocket and beginning to write on the bottom of the small box.

John smirked, he still had his _charm_ , after all these years. He felt normal again, he realised suddenly. He was in the moment, actually experiencing life, not drifting through time like he had been doing for so long. He took a deep breath, savouring the feeling of standing on the plastic floor of the supermarket, the bright lights shining down on him. He was there.

Until his phone rang.

 _Sherlock_.

"John? John?" A panicked voice rang through the speaker of the phone.

"I'm here. What's wrong, Sherlock?" He said breathlessly, already forgetting about Mary and starting to head for the exit of the store. Sherlock filled his mind, everything else trivial now. Mary grabbed his arm, pushing the box in his hand before he could leave.

"There's someone-" Sherlock whispered before he gasped. The soft beeps signalled that the line had disconnected.

John dropped his basket and ran outside, already calling Mycroft in a blind panic. He sprinted through the streets, screaming at people to get out of his way. He had thought he had left Afghanistan behind since he met Sherlock but the adrenaline was booming through his veins and he felt the sand on his face, the sun beaming down on him, making it hard to see. His feet keep moving automatically and he tried to remind himself that his feet are pounding down on the grey pavement and not yellow sand.

"John," Mycroft's voice cut through his panic but didn't make him slow down. He doesn’t know why he called Mycroft, but it seemed like the most logical choice when he dialled him a couple of seconds ago. Those seconds feel like hours already and he’s still wading through people to reach Sherlock and it’s all taking too long and-

"There's an intruder at 221B," John stated between gasps. "Sherlock called me,"

There was a second of silence. "I don't _see_ anything wrong with my brother on the CCTV, John."

"What?" John slowed his running, feeling the burn deep in his muscles and the sweat beading on his skin.

"Sherlock is sitting on the couch, reading a book," Mycroft elaborated.

"But he called me-"

"Maybe a moment of disassociation, dr. Watson," Mycroft mused. "I think to remember that you have enough experience with those,"

John hung up, shoving his phone away with adrenaline-fueled anger. Had he understood Sherlock wrong?

He was near the apartment now, so he would check-in, just in case. John noticed he was still holding the small tea box, which he had now stolen. He smiled down at it, remembering the cute woman with fierce eyes. _Hopefully, she wouldn't mind that I ran away like that,_ he thought. He walked up to the door, pushing his key into the lock, but the door swung open with the small push.

"Sherlock?" The hallway was eerily quiet, no response coming from upstairs. He knew that Mycroft had been wrong immediately. A knot of anxiety trembled in his chest. John ran upstairs quietly, ready to attack. He pushed the door to the apartment open.

Sherlock was sitting on his knees, next to a body. He was gripping a bloodied knife, his knuckles gone white under the thin spatter of blood. Sherlock was staring at the body, at the blooming blood seeping through the white blouse, at the blood seeping into the rug. It was like Sherlock was waiting for the man to come back to life, ready to attack again. Sherlock had clearly won the fight, but not without getting injured himself. John stepped forward slowly, trying to avoid startling Sherlock, so he could see the extent of Sherlock's physical trauma more clearly. Sherlock was gasping, his hands were trembling, and there was a cut on his left shoulder through the thin material of the old tee he was wearing. He looked utterly devastated.

Sherlock wiped his bangs out of his face and looked up at John slowly.

“It is never going to stop,” he whispered breathlessly. "They are never going to stop,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update everyone! I hope you enjoy this one. A lot of angst is coming in the next couple of chapters, so be ready for that!  
> Please don't forget to comment, comments are literally the reason why I'm still writing this mess!


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